


forgot in cruel happiness

by thimble



Series: la Bête [1]
Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Q the fandom bicycle, Stockholm Syndrome, Water Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:13:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dear boy, do you want to stop drowning?"</p><p>He chokes out a yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	forgot in cruel happiness

**Author's Note:**

> A test drive for writing these characters together. Silva is incredibly hard to pin down.
> 
> Title from a WB Yeats poem.

_"You need a wash, my boy."_  
  
  
  
He loses track by day four. Lesser men would have given up at least forty-eight hours earlier, but he was determined to count down, see what the response time would be. They would find him soon, he was certain.  
  
Until they don't.  
  
  
  
 _Mr. Silva's fingers snake up into his hair, ruffling it, smoothing it out. He's right; it's greasy, dirty. Tousled but not artfully so. Mr. Silva strokes it almost reverently, knuckles grazing the curve of his ears. His glasses are broken, the lenses shattered from being dropped one too many times, but Mr. Silva insists that he wear them at all times. Or, sometimes._  
  
 _He takes them off now._  
  
  
  
He almost misses the solitary confinement when they start to bring him to Mr. Silva. Around this time he has realised that he wasn't here to be interrogated; there's nothing he knows that Mr. Silva doesn't. Maybe he was taken as bait, though there's no sign of negotiations, much less a rescue. If he wasn't the damn Quartermaster he's not sure anyone would have even noticed he was gone.  
  
They take him out of the cell and cuff him behind his back, make him sit. The first few meetings, Mr. Silva only sits from across him, watching. He doesn't speak. In fact, none of them do. They feed him once daily, haul him around, and all without saying a word. It's psychological warfare, he knows. But it doesn't dissipate the unease.  
  
Somewhere during day seven he screams, for lack of another voice to hear.  
  
  
  
 _"Such sad eyes," Mr. Silva says, tipping his chin up with a nail. Mr. Silva traces a line down the side of his cheek, pouting. "Come. We'll clean you up."_  
  
  
  
Mr. Silva doesn't talk until day thirteen; by then he's worn himself down, all on his own. He could blame the hunger, though he's never needed much food, or all the rough handling, though that he was trained for. It's the silence he tries to shove out, but he's suffocating with the weight of his own thoughts. No man is an island. No man is an island. No man...  
  
"Dear boy, do you want to stop drowning?"  
  
He chokes out a yes.  
  
  
  
 _He's wearing the same clothes from day one, though the cardigan's gone, and the tie's somewhere on the floor. Mr. Silva unbuttons his shirt, off-white now from the sweat and grime, and leans to mouth at his shoulder to his collarbone ("you've no meat on you, that simply won't do"). He used to shiver at this, but he doesn't anymore. Mr. Silva never leaves marks._  
  
  
  
It would be torture if it wasn't such a relief. Mr. Silva tells him stories, muses about the things they have in common. Calls him by his real name, and asks him in turn to do the same. He learns a lot. Mr. Silva teaches him how not to make the same mistakes. It's always a friendly chat, if a little one-sided.  
  
Mr. Silva only talks when his face is underwater.  
  
  
  
 _"Are you ready to be cleansed, my boy?"_  
  
 _Mr. Silva has a hand fisted in his hair, twisting it every few seconds to renew the sting. His scalp remembers the touch, embraces it even._  
  
 _They're in front of the fountain now, and he's on his knees. He closes his eyes, imagines he's outside instead of rotting in the dark, almost feels the sun burning into his back. He nods, sucking in a breath._  
  
 _Mr. Silva laughs fondly and pushes him down._  
  
  
  
He never asks why, never even speaks unless spoken to, but Mr. Silva tells him all the plans he has for him, bites them into soliloquies on his skin as he's squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to exhale.  
  
"You're wasted on them," Mr. Silva whispers to his spine.  
  
"I promise I will make you great," Mr. Silva licks into his ear, which makes him open his mouth on impulse and cold spiky water rushes in, filling his lungs.  
  
"You're such a clever, clever boy," Mr. Silva sing-songs, wrenching him back and turning mournfully quiet as he splutters and coughs, wishing to drown again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> God, I don't know.


End file.
